In Another Place
by whats up with jeremiah
Summary: He had done it. This time, he had done it. His uncle had gone too far, and Harry had to pay the price for it. As he lay dying on the floor of his Number 4, Privet Drive bedroom, what unexpected force will save Harry? (Rated T, warnings inside, rating may go up later).
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I don't make money on this  
Warnings: violence, gore, icky stuff

Note: This will probably be a one shot unless I'm compelled to continue. Not this most original thing on the planet, I know, but my muse forced me at gun point. I'm sorry.

*For all of you following The Allurement, check my profile for info.

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Moonlight cascaded through the open window - no, no that's not the right word, Harry thought. That's not the right word at all.

The moonlight did not, in fact, _cascade_ through anything. Nor did it shine, glimmer, penetrate, or shimmer. Rather, the moonlight happened to glint off the broken black bars of the window in his small, Number 4, Privet Drive room and peter out on the floor. Peter out like the smothered flame of a kerosene lamp, and taper off just before it reached the post of his cot on the other side of the room.

Not that it really mattered at all. After all, Harry laid dying on the floor of his '_small, number 4, Privet Drive_' bedroom.

But, in a way that was unusually morbid for him, Harry thought he would rather be dying looking at something else. Or at very least, with moonlight that was not so gray and _petered out_.

He convulsively swallowed, almost shuddering at the fat globs of blood that went down his throat.

Vernon had went too far this time. Much, much too far.

Harry supposed maybe his uncle had always gone too far - but this time, it was different. This was something else.

Vernon had beat him until his own meaty knuckles were raw and oozing, had beat him until his arms gave out and his face was saturated with plump beads of sweat and had breathed so hard the whole room smelt distinctly of rum. Had beat him for so long that the smell of rum hadn't disappeared for a few hours, even after he had staggered out of the door and slammed it shut.

And Harry? After the ordeal was over, Harry laid out on the floor, arms spread and damn near immobile except for an acute twitch that would run through his fingers every now and again. And he was in such pain he thought it accurate that Vernon's worst offense wasn't the beating, rather it was the crime of _not_ beating him until he went unconscious.

No, Harry was painfully awake and aware, and contemplating what the last thing he should look at before he dies.

Certainly not the faint traces of light that just barely managed to illuminate the window and, by extension, the floorboards that creeped with redness.

He shifted his eyes; not the cot either, or the wardrobe or broken clock on the wall; not the dull green wallpaper that only looked gray at that time of night, nor even the unopened package of _Bertie Bott's Every Flavored Beans_ hiding under his bed post.

Idiot, idiot - Harry thought - you should have gotten out while you had the chance.

He blinked his swollen eyes, sniffing, and it took him an immeasurable amount of time to open them again. But when he did, there was something distinctly different about the scene he looked at.

In the dead light of the moon, he caught the gleam of a hard edge that hadn't been there before. He tried to open his eyes wider as they skimmed across its surface.

It was a -

A picture frame.

In it, two figures with there hands clasped together spun wildly. One of them, a - a woman - smiled broadly, while the other appeared to be laughing.

The figures moved within the frame, stopping for a brief moment when the frame was over and starting all over again.

Mum - and Dad.

Mum and Dad.

His parents.

The picture was perfectly preserved and not punctured with glass - nor disposed of in the garbage bin - unlike how it had been just days before when his uncle had seen it on Harry's night stand.

But how -?

How could it have -?

Harry swallowed again, gagging.

He decided not to question it. Now he knew - this was going to be the last thing he would look at.

In another time, in another place, maybe he could have gotten to know them. Love them.

And maybe they would have loved him back.

Harry's eyes closed for the last time.

- Until they opened again in another time, and another place.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I don't make money on this

Warnings: minor swearing

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In one fleeting moment, he felt nothing. He was nothing, except for an intangible soul floating across vast and incalculable space that began and ended nowhere.

And in the very next moment, he felt everything. He felt the pain radiating throughout his entire body - the pain that began on the crack in the back of his skull, flared down his spine and lit up his nerve endings with terrible, terrible heat. Terrible heat that was not quelled by his hard grip on cool metal or a soft, constant breeze that ran through the room or even the dampness that lined this face.

Through the dizzying ringing in his ears, Harry thought he heard someone say - "_Lumos_!" - and then the darkness behind his eyelids flared with a bright light that would've made him scrunch them if he could.

His chest wracked with dry coughs like old shutters trembling during a bad storm.

There was a familiar voice - "Merlin, so much blood - he'll be alright, won't he? He'll be - "

"We've got to get him to St. Mungo's -"

His coughing became more pronounced, nearly moving him bodily. A hand gripped his wrist and another on his shoulder.

He fought against them.

"We can't-" another familiar voice, "He's not stable enough to be transferred."

Harry still fought against those hands, and in that terrible heat and confusion, he struggled as hard as he could. Which, admittedly, wasn't that hard.

Stirring, he tried bodily to sit up, only to be pushed back down, and weakly he kicked his legs up into the air. "_Ge'roff_! Get - off me..."

"Harry, Harry - can you hear me? It's me - it's mu-"

"Calm down! Harry, you have to calm down!"

"-What's going on? What's he doing?"

His head hurt too much to separate the voices from each other, and all he could register was the growing noise.

The hands on his shoulder and chest gripped more firmly, more violently. And they were met with even more hands - these hands bigger, more frightening and painful than the last. Harry felt as if he were being smothered by them, as if they kept growing more meaty and hateful -

"No, no, no - stop... please -"

There was more commotion, and Harry still refused to open his eyes.

Footsteps. "Harry-!"

"You need to get out of here."

"Is he going to be okay?"

"We have a right to be here; he's our brother!"

Harry stop writhing and twisting, and the hands around him seemed to uncoil like Devil's Snare on fire.

...Brother?

"That damn Beater, knocking into him like that; who does he think he is?"

"Quiet, Libby."

He blinking his eyes open, a vision of the tall, white-plastered ceiling swimming before him. He knew the ceiling well enough to recognize it; it was the Infirmary, but somehow, something was different.

Against his better judgement, he eased himself into a sitting position and cradled his ribs, and looked at the impossible.

Poppy bustled towards him, "You need to lie down, dear!"

He scarcely heard her.

Right in front of him - there it was. Two figures.

One of them was tall with crisp brown hair, with equally brown eyes that crinkled at the edges. The other - a woman - with red hair that seemed duller than he had ever remembered in the pictures, and one pair of watery green eyes.

Mum and Dad.

No.

Ghosts - that's all they were. Ghosts. Like the ones that appeared out of his wand during the tournament last year.

"Oh, Harry!" she said in a scant whisper, "Oh my baby boy!"

She stepped closer to him, smoothing his hair down with one hand and rubbing his back with the other.

Ghosts - he reminded himself - remaining rigid despite a younger looking Madam Pomfrey trying to goad him onto his back again.

Ghosts that felt strangely warm and real and alive and - tangible.

He was dead and this was the afterlife.

This wasn't - this couldn't be real. Could it?

Someone, who he disjointedly realized was Snape after a moment's thought levitated a tray holding an assortment of different potions towards him. Why would he be in Harry's afterlife?

He allowed the man to pour one after another down his throat, only choking on one that tasted distinctly of dirty gym socks.

Ignoring the apparition on his side and the other that quickly joined her, his gaze grew transfixed on three others he had never seen before. They resisted being herded out of the room by a solemn-looking Dumbledore.

"Please, Albus, we promise we'll be quiet - we just wanna see him."

One of them reiterated that statement, face turning pink with indignation and contrasting against splotchy brown freckles. "Yeah, we'll be quiet."

The woman, ghost - whatever - stopped rubbing his back when the man came up behind her, rested his hand on her side and whispered in her ear. "Lils, we should let them stay."

"But I don't want them to see Harry this way."

The man gave her one long, silent look and she softened.

Madam Pomfrey bustled and grabbed more pillows to place behind his back, seeing obviously that there was no way he would lie back down.

The shorter girl rushed up to his side, along with two taller boys being towed behind her. She narrowed her eyes slightly when she looked at him in a way that seemed acutely pained but not willing to show it. "I'm going to beat that bloody Slytherin's arse in!"

The replica of his mum spoke, "Language."

Harry didn't know what the girl was talking about and couldn't keep the puzzled look from his face.

She let her shoulders drop slightly. "Did that bludger knock the brains out of you?"

Harry couldn't keep the question from his spilling out of his mouth, "Bludger?"

Pomfrey went to his side, casting a diagnostic spell that made his head shiver before passing over the rest of his body. A paper with writing on it popped into existence over him and she grasped it, muttering to herself when she saw it.

The man who looked like his father grabbed Harry's hands, hunching over a bit with his eyes crinkling even more. "Son, what do you remember?"

What did he remember? Well, Harry distinctly remembered being beaten within an inch of his life and being left on the floor of his bedroom to die. But he had a feeling that would not go over well in this afterlife, or world, or universe.

He searched the girl's - Livvie, or Libbie's - face, desperate to distance himself from the man's intense gaze. "I remember blacking out, I think."

"Harry, look at me." he said. "You had a Quidditch match this morning; remember? Robinson's boy - he sent a Bludger towards you. You didn't see it and you were knocked off your broom. It happened so fast - I wasn't able to..."

Dumbledore came up to him, putting a conciliatory hand on his back."It isn't your fault, James."

Harry didn't have any idea of what to think. A bludger? A Quidditch match? There were all of these people that he didn't recognize, and the faces of those that should be dead.

This wasn't the afterlife, it couldn't be, but if it wasn't - then what was this other place? A different world? A parallel dimension or a different universe that he was somehow, someway, transported to?

He needed to see someone he knew. Someone that knew him, and that he could talk to. Someone smart. "Excuse me, Headmaster."

The old man blinked at him, giving him such a look that Harry thought he must have said something wrong but couldn't pinpoint what it was.

"Can I talk to Hermione?"

Dumbledore knitted his brows together, leaning back as if trying to search for a distant memory. Had he gone senile in this new universe? "Granger?"

Harry had a sinking feeling in his gut. They must not have been friends in this world. "Yes."

A boy standing next to Libby scratched at his ear. "You mean the girl that transferred out in my first year? Muggle-born, wasn't she? I remember she was really annoying."

He struggled to keep a dark look from creeping onto his face. "Right, yes. Of course."

His m- Lily - put a hand on his forehead, frowning at him in a way that disconcerted Harry; in pictures he had only ever known her to smile. "How hard did his head get hit, Poppy?"

Pomfrey glanced down at the diagnostic papers in her hands. "He's likely developing a mild to moderate concussion, but it's not too severe." she mentioned, glancing down at Harry before she continued. "However, there are some more pressing symptoms we should discuss later that, at the moment, are stabilized."

"Does he need to go to Mungo's?" Libby asked.

"It isn't strictly necessary to move him from the Infirmary."

If possible, her hair seemed to grow curlier with stress."But-"

"I'm well-equipped to handle him, Lib." Harry recoiled noticeably when he felt Snape's hand gently ruffle his mop of hair.

What was _that_?

He couldn't sort through his thoughts fast enough, and tried to cover his reaction with indignation. "Don't talk about me like I'm not in the room."

Dumbledore eyed him a long while, "I think it's time for Harry to get some rest." he said. "Lily, I'd advise you to stay in James' Quarters tonight if you don't feel comfortable returning home."

Lily nodded, gripping onto James' arm with a stern nod. "Of course."

"You three," he said, gesturing towards the others, "Will return to your common rooms."

Libby stubbornly opened her mouth only to shut it audibly when the one older boy glared at her. "Alright, grandpa."

Grandpa? They were related to the Headmaster? Harry couldn't ever recall hearing about the man having children, nonetheless grandchildren.

The older boy gave Harry a broad smile and dropped his voice conspiratorially. "I'll give that Slytherin hell."

The other one nodded.

Lily started to usher the three out of the room, sniffing. "Now say goodbye to your brother."

As they all waved, Harry's face dropped.

He had siblings?


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money on this

Warnings: none

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The 15th of September, 1995.

That was the current date, and luckily, it was only just a few days shy of a month off the time in Harry's old life. Or dimension, universe - whatever one wanted to call it.

That would mean that it was either the 12th or the 13th when Harry had awaken in this _new_ hospital wing. He couldn't really recall it, considering he had spent the last few days either unconscious or trying to find out every piece of information about this "new place" that he could.

The first thing he had figured out when he had pleaded his alleged brother to nick a Daily Prophet for him was, of course, the date.

Shortly thereafter, he had learned of several other tidbits of useless information - who did what to whom when, who had slandered whom, who had called such-and-such a '_poor excuse for a blast-ended skrewt_'.

The only two things markedly important included, firstly, the lack of columns directly insulting him as they had been in his old life and, secondly, some new names in the paper that he didn't recognize.

However, Harry needed to know more. He physically itched with the desire to find out just how different things were, but no matter how much he wanted to he couldn't really ask anything without inciting suspicion - was Cedric still alive? Where had Hermione gone, and why? Was Ron his friend, at least? Who did he speak to typically - who was he closest to in this world - how did he act? Dress? Speak? How did he even get here in the first place? And, most importantly, where was Voldemort?

All he knew was the meaningless details from the paper, the scant bits of information he'd sometimes catch from his "siblings" who visited him over-often, and the gifts he got from class mates that weren't yet allowed to see him.

Among the small and thoughtful gifts - or at least, what he would have understood as thoughtful had his body been occupied by this other self that wasn't quite himself, if that made any sense - included cards, flowers, and a small bag of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

He recognized a few names like Terry Boot and Susan Bones, and Katie Bell. Others, he had never heard before, and that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. What made him feel even worse was the absence of the absence of either Ron or Hermione's names from the pile of cards.

This discomfort was greatly diminished when the floo place's red flames shuddered before turning bright green, and a familiar face popped out.

Harry almost didn't recognize him - the man seemed much more well-fed and though his eyes were the same as in his old life, they had lost the darkness and bitter edge that Harry had remembered. However, that roguish grin could be none other's.

"Sirius!"

His godfather's grin broadened and he half-jogged to the boy's bedside, extending his arms outward as if to hug him but thinking better of it - considering Harry's injuries - and opting instead to roughly pat him on the head.

"Kiddo," he barked. "You're looking better- thank Merlin!"

At Harry's confused look he added, somewhat sheepishly, "I tried to visit you earlier but you were always asleep and," Sirius looked around theatrically, "_That crazy witch was always there to drag me out_; not to mention Severus - you know."

Severus. Harry couldn't imagine Sirius ever calling the potions professor anything, well, anything quite so civil.

He managed to stifle the look of surprise on his face before the man had noticed, and they spent the next hour or so chattering aimlessly. Harry had gotten so comfortable speaking to his godfather that he had almost forgotten to be careful, and had only realized when he'd made a misstep when the man would give him a confused look.

Nevertheless, the visit went well and Harry was relieved to find he was as close to his godfather in this reality as he was in the last, unlike so many others.

It was only when Pomfrey had made her _nth_ warning to Sirius that 'the poor boy needs his rest', and said, 'if you keep bothering him, he won't recover in time to start back up on Quidditch practice', that he left.

Harry supposed it was all the small reminders of before that had kept him anesthetized to shock, or sorrow, or whatever he should have definitely been feeling. Certainly, he was shocked, but he felt not as much as he should be feeling.

Of course he should have felt surprise, of course; but was he supposed to be happy? Sad? Or anything at all?

But in his darkest moments in this new place, when he was alone, chaffing against the hospital wings' sheets, and the room was nearly pitch black from the night except for the small flickering lights lining the wall, he was afraid.

Just how likely was it that any of this was real, that it wasn't just occurring in his head? What if, perhaps, just maybe, he was still bleeding out on the floor of his Number 4, Privet Drive bedroom? What if this was all some image his head had conjured up - some great vision of what could of or what should have been had things went differently?

When Harry thought hard enough, he began to feel the splintered wood of the floor beneath him; he could feel the fat globs in his throat, the commingled sweat and blood lining his face from the stifling heat of that room even in the chilled summer night.

Furthermore, he could imagine that by now it was only the next day. He was somehow still alive, still fidgeting on that floor in the summer sun, with dried blood crusted over the floor; fevered and hallucinating some other, more pleasant world.

And in the next moment, he breathed. He took a deep, bitter breath of air that smelled both of lime scrub and magical disinfectant. If this were all some strange dream, how could it seem so real?

It had to be real, he assured himself, it just had to be. For the time being, he would chose to believe that. However, many questions remained, and being imprisoned in the Infirmary didn't help him find the answers.

When he had asked earlier when he'd be able to leave, Pomfrey had given him a pensive look and replied, "We'll see."

In Harry's experience, that meant a while. Much too long for someone who needed answers as soon as possible; aside from that, he was overwhelmingly curious.

How different could things be? Certainly, the school's layout was the same, even in this dimension. It was dark, but Harry had sufficient practice sneaking around that even without his invisibility cloak or the Marauder's Map, he could still get around. In fact, if anything, the dark only served to make him harder to catch.

He was so drugged up with Pain Potions that he didn't feel any pain at all in bed, so there would be no difference out of it too.

Before he even realized it, Harry had slipped out of bed, grabbed the wand by his bedside, and padded across the Infirmary floor, pausing only for a moment in front of the silhouette of large oak doors before opening them.

Managing to slip through the narrow opening, he glided through the halls, ducking past familiar portraits and winding his way up the tower.

When he reached corridors without any traces of light, he'd cast a dim _Lumos_ partially shielded by his hands. Soon enough, he had made it to the Library which was thankfully rid of anyone aside from himself.

He allowed his _Lumos_ to grow brighter, eyes skimming over the titles until he picked up a few choice ones; namely, _Great Wizarding Events of the 20th Century_, and settled down in a corner with it opened in his lap.

Maybe Hermione would've laughed had she realized it would take travelling to another dimension in order for him to even look at this book.

Harry's face fell.

He renewed his efforts at concentrating, flipping through the pages and squinting at text.

Rebellion after rebellion, movements he had never heard of but probably would have had he paid more attention to Binns' - it all seemed perfectly natural. Normal, almost.

More pages drifted past like water currents streaming past, until he stopped on one particular page.

The edge of it had been dog-eared.

Nothing else was out of the ordinary, but one piece of information at the bottom of the page caught his attention -

He put his wand against the book, reading the yellowed page and squinting his eyes further.

The title read, _Defeat of the Self-Proclaimed Dark Lord (-1981)_.

Harry leaned back. He may never have opened this book in his old life, but from the way Hermione had seemed to ramble on and on about it... well...

He would have thought that the defeat of Voldemort would be relegated to more than just a mere footnote.

The boy grew pale, carefully flipping from the last few pages of the book and finding a nauseating lack of mention granted to the monster responsible for one of the worst upheavals of wizarding society ever.

Scrambling, he flipped back to the footnote on the dog-eared page-

"_Accio_!"

He startled when the book was torn from his hands, sailing a few feet to the doorway of the library, before landing in a pale pair of hands.

Harry hopped to his feet, stumbling backward slightly when the figure cast a bright flare of light.

"Snape!"

The man sneered, and said in a clipped tone, "It seems someone in here doesn't know how to stay put."

"Sir, I was just..."

Before he knew it, the man had grabbed a handful of the back of his collar much like how a cat handles a kitten.

Harry wrestled against the grip on his over-long infirmary pajamas, feeling himself being dragged out of the library and down the tower. "Sir!"

"Don't _Sir_ me - what's Lily going to think, hm?"

"_You don't have any right to mention my mum -_" Harry stopped, suddenly feeling very young and very confused until he realized he was so worked up he had forgotten his parents were very much alive.

Alive.

Wow.

"What did you just -" the man hissed before stopping to blink at his expression. "What are you smiling for, you impudent brat?"


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money on this

Warnings: uhhhh none (?)

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Disappointment.

It was an emotion that Harry had been on the receiving end of repeatedly and one he was very familiar with. Many people seemed to be disappointed with him at one point or another; in fact, he had a knack for subverting peoples' expectations of him.

First, he had disappointed the Dursleys', not that they ever believed in him in the first place; however, they had expected that they would be able to _pick_ the magic out of him like seeds from a pomegranate. He felt as much as that was their own personal shortcoming, it was also Harry's failure.

Then, he had disappointed his teachers. Considering that he wasn't allowed to outperform Dudley, that wasn't a particularly challenging feat to accomplish.

After that, well, his capacity to disappoint people had only blossomed.

Soon, he had disappointment all kinds of people. If he were feeling particularly liberal with the definition he would say he had damn near disappointed everybody.

His teachers had expected him to be some prodigy; but unlike his dad, he could barely transfigure a mushroom into a dish plate, and unlike his mom, he wasn't that great in Charms either.

Sirius expected him to be some carbon-copy of his father, but he wasn't.

Dumbledore expected him to - well, he didn't really know, if he were being quite honest, but he knew that the Headmaster wanted him to be something.

The moment he stepped into the Wizarding World, everyone had expected him to be something more than he was. Infallible, maybe. A beacon of light or hope, or some sort of hero. Something like that.

He wasn't any of those things, he was just a kid. He didn't know whether to believe that people shouldn't expect him to be perfect, or if he really wasn't what he should be.

The point was that Harry had learned to expect disappointment when it inevitably reared its head.

It was just what he did, and he had gotten so used to that role for such a major part of his life that disappointment no longer ached the way it used to. But for some reason he'd never imagined what his parent's disappointment would be like and how much worse it would be.

Now, he felt it just as greatly as he used to. It was a weight on his chest that simultaneously seeped through him like water but crushed him like granite.

He could hear some of what they were saying in the other room - Madam Pomfrey's Office just adjacent to the hospital wing - even while he was perched on his bed.

_"He did what?"_

Harry scrunched the sheets in his hands very hard, twisting the fabric and picking harshly at threads that stuck out.

_"-Why would..._"

He had only been here for a few days and already he had ruined everything in the span of an evening.

He could imagine it now, his parents faces' glaring down at him, eyes lined with the ugly emotion.

There was no way they would be able to possibly forgive -

His thoughts were interrupted by a low chortle followed by, if he had heard correctly, _"That's my son!"_

_"James..."_

_"And he almost got away with it too!"_

Harry, still perched on the hospital wing bed, was confused for a long moment. Even longer still when the door creaked open and, finding himself unable to look either of them in the eye, was startled when he felt a pat on his head.

He glanced up at James by his side whose eyes crinkled at the edges, "Good work - "

Lily was not clinging to him as she had the first time that Harry had seen her, instead she shot a fiery look at him and punched him in the arm. "James!"

"What? I wasn't encouraging him, I was just remarking on his ability to navigate the halls."

"He's injured, he shouldn't be navigating anything!"

"You've got to admit, Lils, it's pretty impressive, considering that he didn't have the cloak."

"You're - you're unbelievable."

Harry blinked at them, reeling. Where was_ the look_? The disapproving shake of the head? The crossing of arms?

"If I were him, though, I wouldn't have gone to the library of all places - "

"Stop it!" she hissed.

James startled out of his own personal reverie, letting the smile on his face linger for only a few seconds before smothering it. "I was just kidding, dear." he said, before turning to look at Harry. "What you did was very stupid, might I add; you're here for a reason, you could have worsened your injuries."

Harry could only nod.

He had noticed that Lily bit her lip, looking silently from him to his father. "Though we can hardly blame you for feeling cooped up in here."

"We _suppose_ maybe we could push your punishment away until you're better."

He continued to nod. "Right, yeah. Okay."

"You're not getting off that easy." James added, laughing, as if he had some inside joke that Harry didn't know. "Of all places, why the library? And what was it you were reading - Severus said something like, oh..."

"Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century." she said.

He gave them an uneasy smile. "Just brushing up on my history."

Well, it was at least partially true. He continued at their unconvinced looks, "There wasn't much else to do."

"You could have just asked for it."

"Madam Pomfrey didn't want me to do any heavy reading."

His- James let out a snort. "Never would I have expected_ that_ would be a problem."

Lily slapped him lightly on the back of the head, rolling her eyes almost comically.

She had left with the man after it was made clear the boy would give no further explanation, though he expected that it wasn't the end of that particular conversation.

Pomfrey, on the other hand, bustled towards him and proffered a few potions for him to drink.

"Thanks, Madam."

"What's with all the formalities lately, mister? It's Poppy, to you."

He hadn't even realized...

His laugh sounded forced. "Right, Poppy."

It was the little things that always caught him off guard.

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(A/N)

I'm very sorry this chapter is so short. I bet you're disappointed in me, eh? Haha... a haha ... ah whatever.


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